“I shan’t be down there all the time, of course, but for week-ends and so on—­in the intervals between transferring commonplace faces, and still more frequently commonplace souls, to canvas.”  He paused, then asked suddenly:  “So you’re glad, Nan?”

“Of course I am,” she answered heartily.  “It will be like old times.”

“Unfortunately, old times never—­come back,” he said shortly.

And then a quaint, drumming noise like the sound of a distant tom-tom summoned them to tea.

Most of the visitors took their departure soon afterwards, but Nan and the Fentons lingered on, returning to the studio to enjoy the multitude of sketches and studies stored away there, many of them carelessly stacked up with their faces to the wall.  Rooke made a delightful host, pulling out one canvas after another and pouring out a stream of amusing little tales concerning the oddities of various sitters.

Presently the door opened and the maid ushered in yet another visitor.

Nan, standing rather apart by one of the bay windows at the far end of the room, was examining a rough sketch, in black and white.  She caught her breath suddenly at the sound of the newcomer’s voice.

“I couldn’t get here earlier, as I promised, Rooke, and I’m afraid the daylight’s gone.  However, I’ve no doubt Mrs. Van Decken will look equally charming by artificial light.  In fact, I should have said it was her natural element.”

Nan, screened from the remainder of the room by the window embrasure, let the sketch she was holding flutter to the ground.

The quiet, drawling voice was Peter’s!  And he didn’t know she was here!  It would be horrible—­horrible to meet him suddenly like this . . . here . . . in the presence of other people.

She pressed herself closely against the wall of the recess, her breath coming gaspingly between parched lips.  The mere tones of his voice, with their lazy, distinctive drawl, set her heart beating in great suffocating leaps.  She had never dreamed of the possibility of meeting him—­here, of all places, and the knowledge that only a few yards separated them from one another, that if she stepped out from the alcove which screened her she would be face to face with him, drained her of all strength.

She stood there motionless, her back to the wall, her palms pressed rigidly against its surface.

Was he coming towards here? . . .  Now?  It seemed hours since his voice had first struck upon her ears.

At last, after what appeared an infinity of time, she heard the hum of talk and laughter drift out of the room . . . the sound of footsteps retreating . . . the closing of a door.

Her stiff muscles relaxed and, leaning forward, she peered into the studio.  It was empty.  They had all gone, and with a sigh of relief she stepped out from her hiding-place.